You once lamented that all of our best memories were when we were on drugs. Well, them’s the breaks in this shitfuck reality. Some of my fondest memories of us are when we’d binge Adderall or some kind of upper. Amphetamines made us both better. Only Philistines use the stuff to get work done. When you and I took the stuff, we worked on each other with a focus we never quite mustered in sobriety. Suddenly, we could do all the things we loved at once and in harmony with our other half. I’d put on a movie, you’d play a record; you’d paint, I’d write—and every ten minutes, we’d go outside to sneak a Camel Crush and talk and talk and talk and talk. I listened to you with absolute perfection while telling you everything at the same time. Alcohol puts me to bed; it’s Addie that makes me open up. 

We’d walk back up to that shit apartment and jump right back into whatever we’d been doing. Me, taking in Robert Altman’s The Player while cutting up old fashion magazines from the Half-Priced Books and making collages on the back of pizza boxes. You, blaring Franz Schubert as your oils came to together to make all your emotions’ ghosts swirl across a million-dollar canvass. It’s only uppers that can craft a staccato voyage, and it happened every time. Each of our projects earned hours of dedication, yet always peppered with a thousand interruptions, each less bothersome than the last. The waves of energy in my chest would swell and I’d freak out for just a second before laying you out flat and devouring your pussy. I’d just eat and eat and eat and eat, savoring every drip and drop, reveling in how with every lick I’d inspire more juice that’d work its way down from my tongue to lips to my cheeks to my chin to my neck to my collarbone with you just gushing and gushing.  

And then a pause. Another run to the courtyard for some nicotine and tall tales of San Francisco with each drag reigniting that cunnilingus burn. I’d learn about shit that happened to you in the third grade. You’d learn what I really feel of Feist. We’d light another and suck it down like it was the last cigarette before a firing squad in a Jean-Paul Sartre play and our gums would suck our teeth all the way up into our mouths to make way for all the words that needed to explode out into the other’s consciousness. We felt so close and so united, like we were writing the other’s encyclopedia entry and it was due tomorrow but the honor was all ours. And it was, that honor. It was all ours.  

Back upstairs and you’ve switched to Rogue Wave and you’re crying but not because you’re sad or even confused but because you can just feel it all. Every second of it. Those waves of energy are bursting in your chest; the tips of the waves roll out your eyes and down your perfect face. I look at you like that and my brain scrambles for how to invent a machine that will literally merge us. No more of this metaphorical shit. I want science. Frankenstein was a long time ago; we’ll do better this time. My thoughts keep firing off like a Gatling gun, and by the time I grab hold of them again, you’re laid out flat next to me and it’s clear you hijacked the TV a long time ago. I can’t remember where we even were in The Player but I can roll with this documentary. 

You shift just a tad, but it’s enough to inspire southward blood. You want just a moment and we all know we all want just a cigarette. Back on the bench, I tell you how much I want you, how every bone in my tongue will be broke by dawn. You giggle and demure. You’re a lady, a damsel. The “up” quotient of this “upper” is affecting me in more ways than one. “Nobody else has ever done that to me before, you know. It’s like, so you.” What you say is sweet in my ears, but it’s profound in your brain. I like the dichotomy. It’s respectful and complimentary. You whisper just a few details about the panties you ordered online—apparently sometime between the painting and the documentary.  

Then we’re inside our apartment and I’m inside your ass. Everything in its place. Everything with is purpose. My mouth is a wreck of cigarette stench and the earthy tones of your asshole are a world of difference. It makes me drool and I realize how dry my mouth has been. I make little circles along the edges, catching that hazelnut flavor that’s more addicting than porn. I don’t plunge in, just swirl. I can take my time, so I do, slower than a snail and as absorbent as a Swiffer brush. You’re busy doing dishes, but just then reach behind to tussle my hair with a wet hand. Franz Liszt is playing so loud the neighbors would call the cops if he was anything but classical. You start to open up and the excitement overwhelms me and I do plunge. I plunge and plunge and plunge and plunge. You gape a bit so I get my tongue as far up as possible and linger there. You’re filling up the Mr. Coffee with one hand and shoving the back of my head towards you with the other. You switch on our most important appliance and I come up for air. Our brain fuel is to be served with Coffee Mate’s signature flavor: hazelnut, so we make out. It’s disgusting and my cock is cutting through my sweatpants. You jerk me off a tad and then take me in your mouth. 

By the time the first rays of sun fight through our blinds, whole worlds have come and gone. We’re both accomplished artists with immaculate musical taste. We know each other better than any two other people ever have. It’s all so perfect. We should do it again sometime. Or at least, we should have done it more when we had the chance.